Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red
by Ramzes
Summary: Black and red. Life threads so tangled and knotted that they cannot be torn asunder for a lifetime, for over a century. A war as terrible as the Conquest of Dorne itself. So many will die, and rivers of blood will flow up to the stars and beyond. And it will all start with the blood of dragons spilt on a field that will be called Redgrass.
1. Maekar

_Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red_

Maekar

"Are you trying to will the river to dry up?" Prince Baelor inquired, all curiosity. The taunting note in his voice would not go well with his brother, he knew, but it would do lots of good to their battle commanders surrounding them, let alone the thousands of knights and men at-arms who stared at the said river in dismay, helpless and cursing the Seven for turning the weather against them.

Maekar did not look aside from the grey, rain-swollen hell, ironically named the Small River. The water lever was much higher than normal, they could say that even never having been there. The Small River ran cold and dry, carrying thorn trees and dead animals. Maekar's stallion whinnied and pawed, obviously liking the situation no better than his master. He patted him absent-mindedly. "Come on, Pride," he said. "It's all right."

The horse obviously didn't think so, though. In fact, neither did Maekar. The only ones who seemed to do were Daemon's sentries on the other bank. They were left to guard the ford and obviously thought the river would do the job for them. It might very well would.

"Well?" Baelor asked again. "Are you?"

He looked as if he actually expected an answer to his ridiculous question. Maekar sighed and decided to play along. "Is it working?" he said. Baelor would have much to answer for when it was all over. Right now, Maekar wasn't so sure it would end the way they wanted. The rain might put an end to their plan to divide their forces and then Daemon would win. Maekar's lips curled in disgust_. The idiot! What exactly is he planning to do with the things he can't kill with his shiny sword? If there weren't so many things at the stake, I'd love to see him making a mull of it. _But there were this many things at the stake. The idea of Daemon sitting the Iron Throne in Maekar's father's stead was ludicrous, yet it might very well turn into reality. The Seven had just made their latest cruel jape with them, barring their advance. He stared at the river for a moment longer and caught himself actually willing it to dry up. Angry with Baelor for planting this queer suggestion into his head in the first place, he turned to the others – his brother, Bloodraven, the aging Grey Lion of Lannister whose hair was still more golden than grey, the bold Lord Arryn and the Knight of Ninestars whose advice in all things to do with strategy Maekar would prefer to any of the great lords', Ser Gwayne Corbray of the Kingsguard, composed as ever, and Ser Carral Mansel who had taken Fireball's place as master-at-arms and insisted that his place was there.

"How deep do you think it is?" Maekar asked and made Pride follow Baelor's just as recalcitrant horse to the edge of the river. Soon, all battle commanders were there, trying to guess the answer to this. No one could. They only knew it was deeper than it should be. But the ford they were hoping to find, it must still be there. Daemon's men were there to guard it, weren't they?

Maekar looked at the silent men at-arms, at the tightened faces of their commanders, at his brother's composed expression. They were all aware of the reality of the istuation, of course, and they were waiting for him to voice it.

He did. "Well," he said. He could not lift their spirits by joking with the danger as Baelor had and he didn't even try. Instead, he stated calmly, "It seems we must cross this river. There is only one way to find out how deep it is."

No one was surprised and no one was elated when he went on, "I find it fair to be the first one to test it. Are you coming, my lords?"

Everyone nodded grimly. "Good," Maekar said and dismounted. While the others stared, he untied his saddle bag and took out a small bag from the inside. This, he handed to Baelor who only stared in surprise. "My maps and some books on strategy," Maekar explained. "I'd rather not have them get wet. I'll take them back later," he added and his brother laughed all of a sudden.

"There is still hope for you, Maekar Targaryen," he said. "I'll keep them dry for you."

"You'd better," Maekar warned. "Good luck to you."

Baelor nodded, suddenly serious. "And you, too. See you soon!"

Ser Carral looked nervous, obviously not relishing the idea of the others plunging into the Seven knew how deep waters while he stayed behind. Still, it had been decided that he'd join Baelor in his ride to Dorne. It had to be done in secret, so the men who'd accompany the Crown Prince were the best swordsmen, the ones the King trusted above all others. So when Ser Carral approached him, Maekar only shook his head before hearing a word. "No, Ser, you cannot accompany me," he said and added in lower voice, "Take care of Baelor and don't let him place himself in greater danger than need be."

The old man nodded miserably, the perspective of traveling around the roiling kingdom and possibly dying defending Baelor obviously scaring him less than leaving Maekar cross the flooded river on his own. He had served as the master-at-arms second long enough to actually form attachment to his young charges.

Maekar got on Pride again and drawing his sword, spurred the stallion forward into the water, cursing at the first splash of icy water on his legs. Lord Arryn was the first one to follow. Bloodravenon charged into the river next and then no men dared balk. Shivering, cursing, coaxing the nervous horses, and complaining of the cold, fighting to not let the water sweep them away, they still advanced. With their hearts in their mouths, Baelor and his small party watched as the first men reached a brighter place into the middle of churning waters and shouted in elation. Fortunately, the ford _was_ still there, as flooded as it was, and by the time the last ones reached the opposite shore, the others had already dealt with the vastly outnumbered guards.

Baelor exhaled with relief and turned to the twelve men of his party. "Come on," he said. "We're leaving."

* * *

**A/N. The summary was adapted from a line in another fic of mine, Foreign Queen. Those of you who are interested in Myriah Martell might like a look.**


	2. Daemon

**And… the cheers go to Oberon Sexton who faithfully reviews almost each chapter of almost all my Targaryen stories. Thank you, Oberon Sexton, and thank you, Soso-lack-imagination, for following me and reviewing this new story.**

_Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red_

Daemon

The fat septon's droning had been lasting for so long that Daemon could hardly keep his eyes open. To achieve it, he deliberately looked from the statue of the Father to the oak carving of the Maiden inlaid with gold, from the Warrior to the Stranger and then back. Couldn't the man speed it up or simply shut up?

It seemed he couldn't. Daemon almost regretted that he had agreed to attend the naming of the lord's infant grandson but well, he could have not exactly not attended. King or not, he was a guest in Lord Costayne's castle. That was what one did.

Still, he could not remember ever having witnessed such a long ceremony, even at King's Landing. Even the High Septon had known to keep it short, although now Daemon did not doubt that had he been given a chance, he would have prolonged it as much as the fat fool here was doing now. Grudgingly, Daemon admitted to himself that Daeron had done something right – he had obviously taught the Faith to keep it bearable.

Through the anointing with the seven oils the little boy woke up and gave a mighty cry. Alas, that did not daunt the Septon's resolve to bore everyone to tears. Daemon looked at the wooden carving of the Warrior, the only god he truly revered. He would never admit it to anyone but there was a Dornish way he quite liked – some of Myriah Martell's companions said their prayers to the Warrior in front of a sword driven in a tree. Short and efficient. He silently prayed that he won, that he'd be able to fix the injustices that Daeron had done him.

Finally, it was over. One by one, the guests assembled in a column, waiting for their turn to grant gifts to the newborn. The King was first, of course. The small golden dragon with jewels for eyes and claws elicited a small cry of wonder by anyone that soon turned to alarm when Daemon suddenly dropped it mere moments before leaving it next to the boy. A simple mishap… or a sinister omen? Daemon heard the murmur rushing through the crowd and knew which explanation seemed more likely to them. If this was the fate of the gifts the King wanted to bestow upon someone… Angry and disappointed, Daemon tried to keep it in. If they were so sure that the dropping of an item was such an ill omen, what did it say for their true faith in their destiny? Daemon knew without the shadow of a doubt that he was meant to win. He thought they knew it, too.

Once the ceremony was over, everyone was only too happy to leave the closed sept cloyed with oils, perfumes, and sweat. Daemon needed a good sleep, so that in the morning he could start making his plans with a clear head. The flooded river would not keep Baelor at bay forever, this much was clear. Still, they had a week or more before the enemies came the other way.

The enemies… Daemon shook his head. How had it come that Baelor had become an enemy? He had been a childhood friend of Daemon's. They had gotten along pretty well, for most part. He respected Baelor and wished that there was another way for it to end. Alas, there wasn't. Still, he had been secretly relieved for the flooded river not only because it suited their purpose in having time for gathering more of their people but because it prolonged the day when he'd wield Blackfyre against those who had been his friends once – Baelor, Ser Carral, the Knight of Ninestars. For Maekar and Bloodraven, he had no qualms.

He was headed for his chambers, followed by an array of drunken lords who were being insistent on discussing their battle tactics – right now! Daemon scrambled for any excuse for sending them away politely and came with none. And then, he was no longer listening, for Lord Strickland strode through the courtyard toward them. To their host's anger and Daemon's secret envy, he had flat out refused to "lose his time with septons", so instead of attending the boring event Daemon had been forced to endure, he had ridden off to check how things with Baelor's army were going. He looked as if he knew it now – and disliked it profoundly.

"Battle tactics," he said grimly. "A good topic right now. We'll need them sooner than we expected, for we have no time to lose. The flooded river that everyone was so sure could not be crossed? Well, I guess we all forgot to tell Maekar it was impassable."

At that, a stunned silence followed. It was soon broken by exclamations that made Daemon shake his head in fury. Unlike the others, he did not doubt Lord Strickland… and he did not doubt Maekar either. As unpleasant as the younger man was, he was also quite capable and in Daemon's opinion, he had inherited the worst traits of both his parents. He had Myriah's way of seeing the impossible as 'maybe risky' and Daeron's sense of moral certainty. He was just the man who would enter the bloody river without knowing whether he'd ever go out because it was _the right thing to do_. Daemon tried to collect his thoughts.

"So, it is Maekar," he said. "He would just do it, right. But where is Baelor? Don't tell me that he drowned."

"I don't know," Lord Strickland said. "Personally, I doubt we're in so much luck."

Daemon grimaced and then reminded himself that the other man was right. Baelor's death would be to their greatest advantage. He could hardly blame his men for willing it. And really, did he believe that Baelor could survive after the Black Dragon won? He was too dangerous to be left alive. Daemon regretted it but this was the way of life. The way of victory. The way of kings.

"I got into the woods before they came into view." Lord Strickland said. "They did not see me and passed right by. It was Prince Maekar. I recognized him straight away."

"He is no prince," Bittersteel cut in sharply. Lord Strickland, however, was not intimidated.

"I saw his banner, saw his face. It was Maekar, Your Grace, I'd stake my life on it. But Baelor was nowhere to be seen. They did not look like grieving men, though, so I guess whatever happened to him, the wet death was not it."

Among the clamouring of the others, Daemon frowned. Baelor had gotten away before the battle? Why? A quarrel with Maekar? No way. Those two were constantly fighting but they did have each other's back when needed and now, it was needed more than ever. Besides, if such were the case, Baelor should have been the one to lead the army and Maekar the one to run away with his tail between his legs. It made no sense.

They had a plan of some sort and Daemon had no idea what it was. He'd think about it later. Now, he needed to think about his own plans, his own preparations… and he had to start them with rousing the drunken ones among his commanders. He sighed and gave orders for the servants in the kitchen to start working and cold water to be brought.


	3. Brynden

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_Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red_

Brynden

"Bloody hell," someone murmured.

"Already there," someone else said cynically and sent an arrow ahead.

_Maybe next time, we should start shooting fire arrows,_ Brynden thought and strained to see what lay ahead. It was almost sunset and the light didn't hurt his eyes so much.

_We're too far ahead_, he now realized. For a moment, a sense of cold foreboding overcame him but he chased it away. No doubt Maekar had sent patrols to try and reach them, consolidate their efforts. The thing was, in this broken ground it was too easy to lose one's sense of distance. The patrols had no doubt tried and failed to get in touch. The darker it got, the more unlikely it became that they would succeed.

_Maybe Maekar has better luck than I do_, Brynden thought. Somehow, they had gotten themselves surrounded on three sides. Brynden did not have the time to investigate whose wretched fool's fault it was. And it didn't matter anyway. _He_ was the wretched fool who had let it happen. His Raven's Teeth trusted him and only him, followed him everywhere without asking questions and he had brought them into _the heart of the bloody hell_. He shot an arrow and fell someone far ahead. But it couldn't go on forever. For now, they held their own but what would happen when the sun fully set, when darkness made them miss their target? He shot again and checked Dark Sister on his hip. _They are not taking me alive_, he thought without too much sentiment. And it wasn't as if he'd be mourned too much – the sorcerer, the marked one, the one with eyes no human should have. His mother was long dead. Maybe Shiera would weep for him for a while before she took another to her bed. He liked to think that she would. He was delusional, of course.

They were retreating little by little. Brynden strained to see who the enemy commander was but he could not see him anywhere. It was not Fireball, though – had Brynden been in the enemy's position, he would have had the Raven's Teeth already massacred, no matter the casualties. The Raven's Teeth were just too strong an enemy to be given a chance to retreat and escape. And Fireball was the one who had _taught_ Brynden.

He was ready to die today if he must, yet he knew it wouldn't happen. The day was coming – the day of the final battle. The day Daemon Blackfyre would die. The day Brynden and Aegor would fight each other to the bitter end. Brynden knew it, felt it in the marrow of his bones. Even the _crow_ felt it.

Not that it was a great comfort right now. He shot again and missed. Cursed. Around him, his archers started muttering as they, too, started missing. The patrols he had sent ahead returned with the news that the charge was led by Lord Sunderland… and that Fireball was dead, shot in front of a tavern this very evening.

"Good," Brynden said. For a moment, he wondered whether it was possible that they had peace now when Fireball was dead. Aegor's influence over Daemon was considerable but Fireball's death had deprived him of an ally. And in the past, Daemon had been quite fond of Daeron, although he had always considered himself his better because of his martial prowess. Brynden shook his head. What, was he turning into Baelor the Blessed now? They were in the eve of a bloody _battle_. With everyone gathering to help one side or the other. Daemon couldn't turn back, even if he wanted to. And Brynden had one imperative: getting as many of his men alive as he could, so they could enter the fight tomorrow with renewed energy.

"We're retreating," he said. "Hurry up!"

They headed for the only direction that was free. They didn't know where it led, didn't know whether the traitors wouldn't be waiting for them – but they were coming upon them from the three other sides, so they had no other choice. Under the protective shooting of three of his best archers, everyone started to leave. Brynden and Ser Hernaut the Fast waited.

"Come on, Giar," Brynden said when the second archer showed no intention of leaving his place in the tree. There was no time. He could say that there was someone watching them, although he couldn't see them.

"Come on," the Raven's Teeth started.

The young man shook his head. There was blood pouring down his leg from the skirmish earlier this day. An arrow in his chest stuck out ominously. Brynden saw that he needed a maester, urgently. Besides losing too much blood from the leg wound, he would surely die the moment they pulled the arrow out if there wasn't someone who knew how to heal nearby.

"You go," Giar said. The blood glistened black on the light of the rising moon. "I'll stay."

The moon was now giving him a better view. He aimed and shot. Brynden realized that to him, they no longer existed.

"Come on," he said.

As they were retreating under the protective whizzing of the arrows, Brynden tried to remember where Giar had come from. He couldn't come up with anything. Probably, he had never thought to ask, never taken any interest. And now, he might never know, for Giar was a dead man for sure. He stared right ahead and cursed Aegor and Daemon – definitely not under his breath.

They had to die for making the Seven Kingdoms bleed. That was the only way to end this war. The only road to peace.

* * *

Far away in the Red Keep, Shiera Seastar closed her eyes and the image in her mirror blurred. She pinched her forehead and thought of making a potion to help her headache. Her restless fingers were itching for yet another task and started working with familiar mastery, yet when she was done and brought the potion to her lips, she frowned at the taste and realized that it was not for drinking. It was the concoction she gave Brynden every night to soothe his sensitive skin that always caught some sun despite his cloak and hood.

She bit her lip. How dejected he had looked in the mirror. How tired. The sun had hurt his skin already. And he had been _so close to death_. If she knew how, she would make a death spell to Daemon, so it would be over – the threat for Daeron, the threat for the kingdom, the threat for Brynden whom she kept seeing falling down on the battlefield, his face swimming in blood. At this moment, she always cried out and woke up trembling, so she never saw whether he _died_.

No. She would not think this way. He wouldn't want her to. Instead, she focused on the good moments between the two of them, of the lean arms holding her, the birthmark she loved to lean her cheek against, the red eyes softening for her alone.

"Just a few weeks, a month at most, my love," she whispered. "An eternity, indeed, yet it is so short, almost nothing."

And then, she realized what she had said. Tears came to her eyes and she let them fall. "Oh yes, Brynden Rivers, I do love you. You'll never have cause to doubt it again."


	4. Baelor

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_Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red_

Baelor

_Could it have been avoided?_

This was the question that did not leave his mind while they marched through the slopes of the Red Mountains, through the treacherous Dornish Marshes, and all the way through the Reach. Could have they done something differently, made amends, prevented this from happening?

He really should stop asking himself that. There was no use of that now. Still, while he was riding ahead of his people, he had much time for thinking at it always came back to that.

Had they treated Daemon badly? Perhaps. He was a great warrior and a good man, there was no doubt about that. Still, it was not their fault that he was a bastard. It was just the way of things. They could not have changed the world for him and aside from some petty quarrels when they were children, Baelor really couldn't recount anything untowardly on their side against Daemon. They had not persecuted him. They had not deprived him of Blackfyre – which now Baelor considered a mistake. They should have taken the sword away by the reasoning that it was not King Aegon's personal property to bestow upon whomever he desired. But Daemon hadn't been their enemy then, so they had had no pressing reason to deprive him of anything. Ironically, when he gave them a reason, it was already too late. The King Who Bore the Sword! It would have made a fine jest if it hadn't turned into a tragedy. Daemon would have probably used said sword to cut off the heads of everyone he disagreed with and regret it later, for whatever his faults, cruelty was not one of them.

Except for things he didn't understand, like the fact that learning was as valid a way of advancing a kingdom as warfare and sometimes even better. Like his disdain for weakness – and just about anyone who was not an accomplished warrior was weak in his eyes. To him, strength was in martial prowess alone. He was infatuated with the stories of the Young Dragon, never wanting to hear about all those who died for the sole purpose of sating the ambition of a boy who still had much growing to do and simply didn't know better. _But I am not being fair to him_, Baelor reminded himself. After all, Daemon had been influenced by his mother, Princess Daena who worshipped her eldest brother while Baelor's own mother, Myriah Martell, spoke of the Young Dragon with disdain she rarely bothered to disguise, even in King Aegon's presence. She had lived through the Conquest of Dorne and growing up, Baelor had occasionally heard tales from both her and her attendants about the horrors they had experienced, half of Sunspear razed to the ground, the burned Tower of the Sun, all men who died and the women who drowned the babes fathered on them by the Seven Kingdom's soldiers by force. Even the Dragonknight had once made a slip of the tongue, saying that his best period in Dorne had been while he was captive, because he wasn't forced to watch the horrors going on and even take part. Daemon had been raised by a woman who held the man responsible for the carnage as a hero. Baelor still remembered her lectures on the subject of how the only thing that mattered was being strong enough to defeat your enemies on the battlefield. He supposed he didn't wonder why Daemon detested Baelor's father… He had simply never been taught that there were different kinds of strength.

And now even more people would die because of that.

"Your Grace!"

Baelor startled and Ser Carral glowered at him. "Has the sun gotten into you?" he snapped. "You were nodding off, it seemed. In your saddle."

Baelor looked aside. It would be better to be perceived as one who was submitting to the inconveniences everyone else in their army was experiencing than admitting that he was thinking of days long gone and wondering what might have turned out differently. It would be taken as a sign of weakness – the same weakness his father was accused of. And that would not be true. While he still believed in leniency, Baelor also believed that there was a line, a fine one but irreversible and beyond it, there was no going back. It had gone too far. _No quarter given or taken_, Maekar had told their father the morning they left. To everyone else, it had sounded like a declaration, yet Baelor had recognized it for what it was: his brother was asking for orders, a confirmation. The King had nodded silently.

Once, peace and leniency might have been possible. Now, it was no longer so. It was too late.

He raised his hand. "We'll make camp when we reach Long Valley tonight," he said, to the initial dismay of the men around him. Still, no one muttered for long. Whatever else could be said about stormlords and Dornishmen, they were not slow to learn – they were learning to take his word as a prediction of a maester. He heard it often when, unable to rest, he roamed around the campfires in simple brown cloak, unrecognizable from any other man-at-arms, to Ser Carral's dismay, and listened to the men's conversations. Of course they would win, they told each other. After all, the Prince had announced that they were to leave the very next day after he had arrived to take their lead and by the Seven, they had – he had somehow managed to organize their march and lines of supplies in the single night he had, although Blackfyre had changed the course of _his_ march all of a sudden, ruining all of their preparations. He had said that they'd reach the Westerlands in ten days and everybody could show the blisters and saddlesores they had gotten and some of their tunics probably could never get scrubbed clean of all the mud they had had the misfortune of acquiring on their persons because of the torrential rains – but they had reached there on the tenth day. The Prince himself had been seen soaking his dried meat on the rain – for they could not carry much food, with the speed Baelor was enforcing – and cursing how stringy it was. But he had brought them here. So if he said they'd reach Long Valley before midnight, then they would – even if they ended up too weary to build a proper camp.

The day was rolling, long and hot. Each intake of breath was like inhaling fire, it was hard not to nod off and ever so often, Baelor startled and asked himself the same question.

_Could it have been avoided?_

Probably not, given Daemon's temper, his upbringing and the circumstances. Taught to disdain Dorne and everything Dornish, Daemon disliked having to bow to the Dornish Queen of Westeros, having to see so many Dornish customs make their way in Westeros. And while he and Baelor had been friends once, with age, the difference in their status became more obvious. While Daemon was never disrespected, Baelor received more honours, more responsibilities. At his sixteenth nameday, he was allowed to attend the Small Council and represent his father on different occasions, with the dragon banner carried before him and everyone paying respect. Baelor didn't think Daemon would have lasted more than two sessions of the Council – the Seven knew that sometimes _he_ wanted to bolt out and leave them to their boring subjects and petty quarrels – but the thing was, the fact that he wasn't invited to attend ate at him. Worse yet was the fact that at court, Daemon was placed not only behind Baelor but behind Aerys and Rhaegel, both of whom he despised, and Maekar who was so much younger. For a few years before the rebellion, Baelor thought that the only one of the royals Daemon didn't hold in disdain was Aelinor. And while the ridge between Daemon, on one side, and Baelor and his brothers, on another was widening, Aegor had kept whispering his poison in Daemon's ear and with each day, Daemon had become more willing to listen.

Daenerys' betrothal had been the last drop. Even if she had been given to him, he would have risen in rebellion over another matter, just later.

When they reached Long Valley under the starlight, everyone was so weary that some murmured they lacked the energy to dismount. Baelor could hardly keep his eyes open but he summoned Ser Carral to a conversation.

"I want you to leave before sunrise," he said while they were building a fire. "I want you to find Maekar and inform him about our position and our plans."

Ser Carral nodded curtly. "Am I to leave now, Your Grace?" he asked.

"In the name of the Seven, no!" Baelor denied. "You'll only fall from your mount, most probably. Tomorrow before sunrise."

"Should I come back?" the man asked and sat in front of the fire.

"I think there will be no time," Baelor said and took his dried meat out. "You'll just have to fight in Maekar's ranks. If there is some change, send someone to me but don't come yourself. And… take care of him, will you? Don't let him do something reckless unless he must."

Ser Carral raised an eyebrow. "What, like perching atop an unbroken horse?"

Baelor grinned. His brother had a liking for untrained horses, had had it since before he could walk and their mother had made the mistake of letting him see the stable hands trying to steer one towards the stall. With the passing of time, the fascination had only grown, to the collective horror of everyone in the Red Keep - well, except for their grandfather who found it amusing, probably because their father _was taking it too hard_. The most serious accident Maekar had had with these wild animals had left him with a fractured skull at age nine. Not that he had thought better of it afterwards.

"Yes," Baelor said. "Something like this." Then, he became serious. "He's quite hotheaded, as you know. And he doesn't have much practical experience. None of us does. Just watch him, yes?"

The moment of levity was gone. Ser Carral looked resolved. "I'll try, Your Grace," he said. "Only… you're telling me to watch over Prince Maekar, he's telling me to watch over you… And you both know you never do what I say. You do just what you've set your minds on doing. You're both headstrong. I can advise and I can stay silent, and it'll make no difference at all. There is no stopping either of you."

Baelor had been hearing this reproach for years and never taken it too hard. Now, he snickered and feigned a look of concern, although in truth, he was a little repentant thinking of all they had subjected the old knight to. "It can't be easy with us. We always get you angry, don't we?"

"There's no denying that!" Ser Carral grinned back. "But as you know, I don't like meek ones all that much. I like wildlings, with the seven hells in their blood."

"It's the seven hells where I am sending you." Baelor was now grim again. "It's the seven hells we'll soon turn this land into."

_No quarter given or taken._ Daemon had had his chance. And no one could go back to the crossroad he once chose a road at and take a different one.


	5. Daemon 2

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Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red

_Daemon_

The night was dark, and blue, and scented with the aroma of roses and lilies. From his place at the open terrace, Daemon stared in the distance. The stars were so bright, he could count each one of them… but not too far away, just over the hills, there was another kind of stars burning: the fires of the enemy camp. His eyes went to the brightly lit tent. It didn't have dragons on it but it was so big and surrounded by men-at-arms that he had no doubt that it was the commander's tent. Maekar's.

For a while, Daemon stared at it, his mind reeling with all the things he had to do before the battle tomorrow. He had hoped that they might have another day or two to plan their things better but Maekar had made an appearance too early. Not that Daemon was surprised. _He was always a quick learner_, he thought and remembered that their teachers in the Red Keep had never tired of praising Maekar's grasp of strategy and his single-minded determination. If he had decided that he would reach the Silver Peak in a given time, then he would reach it, even if he had to crumble and die at the gates. And it seemed that his host had picked up on his resolve.

_Are you so eager to die, Maekar?_ Daemon wondered. He did not relish the thought of making Lady Naeryne a widow – she was too beautiful and seemed to be as kind as Maekar was insufferable. However, the rumour was that she loved her husband and Daemon had never enjoyed making a woman cry. He supposed he would have to find her a new husband soon – and a better one than Maekar. Her boys would have to be send to some ramshackle castle in the middle of nowhere, of course. There were many years ahead until any of Daeron's grandchildren grew up enough to pose a problem.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices. In the solar behind him, a group of young knights laughed and planned what they would do after the battle tomorrow.

"I'll turn the Grey Lion run with his tail between his legs," Ser Maryl Fletchley said. "And then, I'll go under Casterly Rock to dig out all the gold Lannisters hide there."

"I'll take some silver instead," Jon Strickland replied. "I'll do me some good."

The other man laughed. "Silver? I thought copper would suffice to the brothels you prefer."

Jon Strickland laughed. Daemon was pleased to see his men so relaxed before the battle. He liked his people confident. "The one I have in my mind is far more expensive than that," he said. "I saw her at King's Landing a few years ago. In fact, she is worth ten thousands dragons but since her fool of a husband shuns her bed, I think silver would do. She'd be grateful to have a real men to get her warm, I think."

Daeron's good cheer disappeared. He listened intently. Sure, the fool went on, "And what's this about whores? If Aelinor adorns herself with jewels and dons a clinging attire or… if she lets her hair loose and take her finery off, all of it… would she be inferior to the best whores of…"

"Who are you talking about?" Daemon interrupted, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Aelinor the Undesired, Your Grace," Jon Strickland said readily. His smile disappeared as he saw the look in Daemon's eyes.

"Lady Aelinor Targaryen, you cur," Daemon snapped. "Say it after me."

"Lady Aelinor Targaryen," the young man said obediently and then gave him a look of astonishment. "But why are you like this, Your Grace? I don't…"

Daemon waved the question off and strode out of the solar, just as surprised as the group of knights. What had gotten into him, really? Aelinor was Daeron's daughter; she was probably praying for Daemon's defeat right now. She was on the other side, firmly.

And still… how did these men dare talk about her like this? Her father might not be the true king but she was as high above them as the sun was. How did they dare make such plans? Aelinor was not a whore from a brothel, no matter what the rumours said. The only truth to that was that Aerys was a fool for shunning her bed. And being wed to him made her untouchable for other men.

_Maekar deserves it_, Daemon thought gloatingly. _It serves him right. For all his arrogance and bad temper, he does love her, I know. So proud and haughtier than what is merited… it does serve him right to be parted from Aelinor. At least I am not suffering alone._ For he had witnessed the storm that had raged in the Red Keep when Maekar had been informed that he wouldn't have Aelinor, that he was to marry Lord Velaryon's daughter instead. Knowing this, Daemon now wondered how he had ever entertained the idea that after refusing Maekar and Aelinor, Daeron would mellow for him and Daenerys.

The worst part was that even after his victory, there was not much Daemon could do for Aelinor. She could not be allowed to take a highborn husband who would bed her and father grandchildren of Daeron's on her. It was either a solitary imprisonment – considering how it had worked for Daemon's mother, not a wise option – or a husband of such a low rank that her children could never pretend for anything. He didn't like it but that was the best option.

Engrossed in his thoughts, he didn't realize he had crossed all the way to the garden and was now pacing restlessly. Scent of food showed him that he was near the kitchens. He looked around and really, the patch of garden he had found himself in was sprouting vegetables alone. He started to turn – and almost fell over a servant with a huge bucket. "Your Grace please forgive me," the man stuttered, bowing.

Daemon scented the nasty aroma of bad food and grease and stepped aside, so that the man could proceed for the garbage pit. To his surprise, the white-haired servant headed for the wall of the building, obviously intending to go round. "Where are you going?" Daemon asked.

The man looked down. "To the dungeons, Your Grace. I am to feed the prisoners. With cooking for the army, we didn't have the time…"

"You are to feed…"Daemon repeated and there was fury and disbelief in his voice. Star Peak was the place they had sent all their major captives to. The disgusting stench from the bucket almost made him retch when the realization dawned. "You feed them _this_?" he asked and eyed the bucket with disgust.

The man's shoulders stooped further and that was the whole reply Daemon needed. "Lead the way," he said. "Leave this here," he added impatiently when the servant started to walk still carrying the bucket.

The dampness started suffocating him as soon as they started climbing down. Here, the stench closely resembled this of a battlefield – the reek of blood, puss, waste, and fever. All this was overlaid by a layer of stuffy smell. The few torches in their brackets in the wall gave some light but also contributed to the heavy air.

The prison chambers were mere stalls, narrow and cramped. Not all of them had buckets, so in some of them the piss and waste were exposed in the corners, as far from the rushes as possible. In each stall, there was a man, incredibly thin and sick-looking. Some of them were delirious, others sat staring at a spot on the floor. The hotness in the dungeon immediately gave Daemon some idea of what was going on.

"For how long haven't you fed them?" he asked. "For how long they had not received water?"

The man cowered back. "Your… Your Grace," he started. "We did feed them but now, with the arrival of the army… the men-at-arms needed to be provided for first…"

Daemon knew it was so. Still, the look of the stalls and the men inside showed him that this was not a recent thing. These people – his captives whom he was responsible for, brave knights who had fought valiantly – had been starved and kept thirsty for weeks and months. And when the people in the castle had thought about them, it was to provide them with the garbage of those who lived in the castle. "How dare you," he spat. "What do you think you're doing? These are humans in there, you…"

The man's terrified face made him come to himself. No, it wasn't the servant's fault. He did what he was ordered to. The one who should answer to Daemon was Lord Strickland – the one he had entrusted the prisoners to. And Daemon would demand an answer… tomorrow.

"Bring some water," he ordered. "And something to eat. Not garbage but real food. Now!"

His relief evident, the man scurried away with speed that was quite unbefitting his years. Daemon hesitated and then stepped towards the first stall. The man there didn't even look at him – he was lying on the rushes, his face flushed, his eyes wandering in the clutches of fever. Daemon didn't know him.

In the next stall, a man sat with his back against the wall. His dark eyes followed each movement of Daemon's but they were devoid of life. He was so emaciated that his bones protruded under the skin. His face resembled a skull. It was hard to say whether he had seen sixteen or sixty namedays. And still, there was something to him that made Daemon unlock the door and enter. Something familiar.

The stench of the man almost made him draw back. But he didn't. He went near, caught the prisoner's chin and turned his face toward the torch in the hallway.

The man flinched and turned his face away. His head hung down. Unsure whether he had lost consciousness, Daemon shook him – and the answer came immediately.

"My back, you beast. Don't you touch my back."

The voice was raspy, barely audible – but along with the face, it suddenly gave Daemon the realization he had been trying to reach. He almost shook with pity and horror and slowly squatted next to him.

While Daemon was lauded as the Warrior, when asked who was the warrior he admired most, he always replied, "Ser Galend Highhill." That earned him looks of surprise because very few people had heard about the young knight of Maekar's household. He wasn't a descendant of a great family. He was not even noble. Just someone who had been captured aboard a pirate's ship and taken to Lannisport. Had Maekar not asked to have the slightly older boy serve him, he would have still probably be toiling in Lannisport. Instead, he had joined the royal household. Daemon still remembered how Maekar spent hours teaching him their language and other things, like holding a sword… Three months later, Galend had bested Maekar, to Daemon's great amusement. Four months later, he had bested Daemon himself, to his great embarrassment and surprise. With time, though, Daemon had come to understand that while he was greatly gifted, there were people who were truly natural in martial arts, people whose bodies were weapons in themselves. As physical abilities, Ser Galend surpassed by far Maekar, Daemon, and everyone else at court; as a warrior, he would have become the greatest one ever seen after Aegon the Conqueror himself. He would have… but then, he had sustained a serious wound in the arm. Almost immediately after, the Black Dragon had captured him and sent him here… to rot.

Daemon's anger was so hot that had Lord Strickland been here, he would have attacked him without thinking about the upcoming battle. He had entrusted his captives to Strickland – and he had turned a bright, promising man into a shadow. In Daemon's name. No matter how wrong Galend was, he had been a warrior. A brilliant one. He did not belong here, his life draining out of him little by little. If he was to die, it should have happened at the battlefield.

"I am sorry," Daemon said and drew his hand back. "What's wrong with your back?"

Yellow teeth flashed in the gaunt face. "The people here weren't too pleased with my lord's arrival, so they took it out on us," Ser Galend replied. His throat was so dry that his words were unclear, painful. "Is this why you're here?"

Surprised, Daemon found that he wanted to smile. So the ex-pirate was not broken. Daemon wasn't guilty of this. Not for a first time, he wished that he had seen in Galend what Maekar had obviously noticed first.

"No," he said. "I don't have time for entertainment. I am preparing to finally claim my crown."

Ser Galend huffed – a tortured sound full of disdain.

The servant returned with a bucket of water and a few mugs. Daemon filled one of them and nodded to the man to give water to the prisoners. He placed the mug to Galend's lips and supported his head, careful not to touch his back.

The other man drank thirstily, then looked at Daemon. "The crown does not belong to you, Ser," he said. "It is King Daeron's."

It was not a daring – more of a mere statement of a fact. Daemon stared at the captive. How many hardships had he encountered but how consistent his deeds were! How firm his convictions and his bond to Maekar must be! And how senseless and cruel it would have been if Daemon held that against him and not give him help.

"I'll send you help," he said. "Before I leave to defeat Maekar," he added. "Because he won't yield if I propose to spare his life, don't you agree?"

Ser Galend huffed again. This time, it looked easier, with his lips wetted and his throat soothed somewhat. His eyes, though, still glowed with fever and his skin was sickly yellow."If you were in my lord's position, would you have accepted such a proposal?"

Daemon didn't deign this with an answer.

Ser Galend smiled. "You see? You're more than my lord than you think."

The thought of being anything like Maekar disturbed him. He rose. "I'll send you my maester," he said. "I want you to be healthy when you accompany me at entering King's Landing."

"Don't bother, " Ser Galend replied. "I'll go there with my lord."

They locked eyes, both smiling with irony.

"What great faith you have in him," Daemon said.

"It isn't as if I have much else left," Ser Galend murmured, matter-of-factly.

He still had his life, although by the look of him it wasn't clear how long that would last. Daemon filled the mug anew and called the servant. "Take him out of here," he said. "Bring him to a room that deserves to be called that. And call my maester."


End file.
